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hollow tattoo on a wooden bridge which they had crossed
just a little earlier.

"Do you hear anything?" he demanded.

"I don't reckon I do," Mr. Simmons replied; "nothing
special."

Cantering along, Mr. Munn strained his ears. He tried to
sort out the sounds. There was the sound of the horses in
his own band, and that other sound, if there was another
sound. He was sure, then he was not sure. It was not reason-
able, he thought. He knew that he was the last out of town.
Then he said loudly, "Stop!"

The horsemen grouped compactly in the middle of the
pike.

" Can you hear anything?" he asked.  " Anything coming?"

For a moment, no one answered, then a man said, " Maybe.
I ain't sure." He slipped from his saddle, and, crouching at
the edge of the pike, put his ear to the earth. The other men
peered down at him. He rose quickly, and said, " Yeah, yeah,
somebody's coming."

"Yes?" Mr. Munn demanded.

" Horses," the man declared, " and a lot of 'em."
Mr. Munn scanned the sky.   It was a little lighter now,
It was not dawn, but the clouds were thinning.

" Some of our boys going home?" a man suggested.

"No," Mr. Munn said, "we're the last out. Out this way,
anyhow."

" We could bushwhack 'em," a man proposed, " get behind
that fence and let 'em ride past and bushwhack 'em."

"No," Mr. Munn decided. "A fight won't do us any
good. Come on!" He leaned forward and the mare re-
sponded beneath him. Beside him and behind him the hoofs
pounded the hard pike. The wind flapped his hat-brim. The
fields and woods were black on each side, but between them,
ahead, ky the paleness of the pike. If they could make it to
the New Bethany crossroads with a decent lead, they could,
Mr. Munn was sure, throw off the pursuers. They'd have a
chance, a good chance in that tangle of lanes there in that